We are too much like old men,weak and brittle-boned—damned to a walking limbo,unable to shake the rust of our failures.

I realized this after yesterday,when disappointment—born of lovers' runaway dreamsthat did not come true—blew through melike an icy December wind.

Coincidence and irony insistedthat you join me for a drink outside the airport.I was glad for the chanceto dispel the cold of a long, gray winter,though it was the fireplace, not you,that radiated warmth and life.

We once decided to run to strange placeswhere skies do not turn gray in the daytime;we are too much like old men to travel anymore.

And as I look past the dustgathered on my tarnished mirror this morning,I wish to never see you again—we talked of nothingbut the glory days.We did not touch on those unfulfilled dreamswe shared on dark nights.

You spoke of some strange man,and your eyes glazed overbecause you remembered—if but for a moment—that youth is no longer in your grasp.

You spoke of your children,who I know you once dreamed would be mine—I will confide this:I wished for the same.

You spoke of no weaknesses,of no failures—neither mine nor yours.

In passing you mentionedthat you would send me a Christmas card.How fittingthat tiny pieces of paperbridge our thousand miles—for we are too much like old men,too cowardly,to make the leap ourselves.

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